Sifting Through Last Night

Folder: 
Dark Poetry

What do I do with this last
scream that never preformed
its savage soliloquy,
that's burrowed here in
this nest where I keep it
fueled with fertile pain?

 

The sound it makes is the
sound of glass: an icy
shatter imprisoned in stillness.

 

And the quiet is the space
between us where the entire
night is stored away--
particles of moon,
cracked porcelain sky,
the stars that never
stirred me.

 

Return them with a word,
one word I would bronze
for eternity
or leave them as souvenirs,
to taunt the dreams
that create me.

 

Hell revealed its true name--
epitaph of innocence
that makes gravestones of
millions of lives.

 

That name is One,
legacy plucked from
Eden's limbs.

 

The tree of knowledge never
made me a god,
just someone who knows how
to scream
and write her name.

 

by Patricia Joan Jones

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